Hunger

I wake up hungry and go to sleep hungry. I'm hungry with a full belly. I'm hungry for more, more, more. For more than what I have, more than what I see. It's a hunger that is never satiated, that aches beneath every breath, every thought, every feeling. I know not what the hunger yearns for, I only know is that occupies my very being.

I know the hunger is something born of the mind, yet I feel the hunger like it is my own, and try to search for the thing that can quench it. I listen to the voice that identifies with the hunger, I listen to the way it moans and pines, I feel the way it takes control of my limbs and takes me places where I'm only left more confused and lost, the web of hunger spreading beyond me and into my life, tainting everything the colour of my desire.

And so this has slowly become my identity, my purpose. The search has run rampant through my life like a rabid mole, unseen - yet apparent in the way my mother looks at me like I'm crazy, in the way my friends have gradually drifted away, in the way the world around me has turned to black and white through my eyes.

There have been moments when my hunger has eased, and even vanished, cured by strange little moments in life, connections, even. But it's never lasted long, and I've learnt to chase, chase it like my life depends on it. And though I have felt what it's like not to be hungry, I still search, and blissfully ignore the ruins it leaves behind as I tear my dignity apart to find what it takes to satiate it.

I search today, even when salvation is but a dim, faint light on a faraway horizon. Still, I search, even as I tire whilst shovelling horse shit in the stables, and all but want the day to end. Still, I search for something in the way the horses look at me, the way they study me with their glossy, plump eyes. Do they see something in me? Am I worth something to them?

After scooping up the last pile of dung into the wheelbarrow and dumping it, I slump against the barn, wiping sweat off my forehead as the midmorning sun beams right onto my face. I turn to lumber back to the house, violently kicking a lump of dirt out of my path, when I hear the paper boy ring his bell.

I look back to the gate, watching as the paper boy stops at the post and throws the newspaper in my direction. It lands near my feet with a soft thump. I pick it up, brushing the dust off it. The paper boy raises his hand in greeting. I raise mine in return, and from where I stand five paces away, I search for something again. I search his eyes for whispers and offerings of truth. I search his face, his body for words unspoken, for a sliver of secret reflection I wish to embrace. As he cycles away a second later, there is nothing once more. The hunger remains.

I sigh, suddenly fighting the urge to rip the newspaper to shreds and watch the torn paper dissipate into the air like ash. Instead I stomp back to the house and fling the paper onto the kitchen table, and fall into one of the chairs, defeated. I rest my chin on my palm and feel myself begin to disassociate, the soft lights in the kitchen blurring into orbs of oblivion as my vision relaxes. I vaguely feel myself honing in on the living room, the colours, lines and shapes unforgiving reminders that this house harbours memories that leave me more hungry than ever before. And suddenly I can't help but think I was raised to be starving. To be starving for something this home - this life - never gave me.

I usually try my hardest not to think about these things, but occasionally - like now - thoughts of hurt arise from dormant coals, igniting the fire all over again. And the fire always burns with vigor, the unwanted emotions drifting into my lungs and throat like smoke, choking me. I squeeze my eyes shut until it feels as though my eyeballs will burst, but no tears come. As always.

I open my eyes again, and there she stands. With her hands on her hips, her brow stern and a storm brewing in the depths of her ocean eyes, mother steps into the kitchen and rinses her hands in the sink.

"What are you doing inside?" she asks, her voice rotten with steel.

I lift the newspaper off the table and wave it slightly without looking at her, my brow furrowed and disturbed.

"What's wrong with you?" mother demands, wiping her dripping hands on her flour-y apron. It was infuriating - she could always tell when something was bothering me.

"I don't want to talk about it," I manage to get out, my body wound tight.

Mother sniffs irritably, but as I steal a glance at her, I see her face soften, her eyes squinting with something that could only be a glimmer of affection. Something in me softens too, and suddenly my search pauses, a momentary pocket of serenity coming over me. But it was fleeting; a direct passage to the denial that floods through me.

No, she doesn't care about you unless something's actually wrong, remember?

I slump, resting my head on my arms, and sulk. Even though my mother and I have our difficulties, I can't help but feel sorry for her as I remember what happened in this house. As I remember what makes the fire of my emotions turn into a blaze. As I remember what tore her world in half.

Fifteen years ago my father left her. Left us. She was only twenty-two with three children, pregnant with the fourth. I was just three when it happened, the rest of my siblings younger still. Fifteen years ago she was left by her husband with no warning, no reason, left to raise four children all by herself. Not the mention run the farm with little to no help.

So despite the way mother makes me feel, I can't blame her for being the way she is - tough, as unmalleable as iron, forged by her wounds. She was someone who had to wear her scars like armor, and run her home like a kingdom built of unwavering strength and fortitude. I had to admit, I admired her for that.

With a sigh, I close my eyes once more and listen to the sounds around me to distract myself from the nightmares of the past, the nightmare of my hunger. I listen to the sound of the grandfather clock ticking, the sound of my mother bustling around in the kitchen, the sounds of my two youngest brothers playing outside on the lawn. I remain there for a while and time muddies, the sounds I was listening to melting together as a strange weariness creeps over me.

Suddenly, a sharp thump snaps me back to reality. I raise my head and find a steaming cup of tea sitting in front of me.

"Drink up," mother says from behind me, "You've still got a lot to do today."

Mother touches me lightly on the shoulder, almost timidly, as if to say 'I know I don't show it, but I care'. She returns to the kitchen, and once more, my hunger abates. This time the hunger stays away, and it feels like I can see clearly for the first time in what feels like my whole life.

I drink my tea slowly, savouring the moment.

Once the cup is empty I go to the sink and wash it, placing it back on the shelf. I head out of the kitchen, coming to a halt at the door. I look back at my mother and my heart softens, melts like butter.

"Thank you, mama," I say quietly. I can't remember the last time I called her that. I try to swallow the lump that has formed in my throat.

I watch as my mother looks up, a small smile on her lips. Her face is gentle, her eyes warm. I feel myself begin to smile as well and I quickly turn away and walk back outside, not knowing if I can handle that much hope, that much unspoken love. The image of my mother's face stays in the eye of my mind, and I swear I recall seeing tears glitter in her eyes like stars.

I stop on the porch steps and take a deep breath, the smell of hay and sunshine filling my nostrils. I try to rein myself in, but I feel too elated to stop myself from smiling, too buoyant to stop the feeling of sanguineness flowing through my limbs.

Though I am happy and hopeful, I know that the wounds my father left will continue to crack open and bleed, ever-present. I know that my mother is not perfect and will not always show she cares and cannot fix what I lack. I know the hunger will come back and always will as long as I let it. But I also know that wounds are able to heal. I also know my mother cares. And I know that hunger is not permanent.

And perhaps that is enough, I think with a smile.